Looking for dark urban fantasy romance with Shadow Daddy MMCs?

Athena Starr delivers dangerous antiheroes, shadow-magic, mythic legacies, and obsessive, world-ending love. Explore the best dark romance books led by morally black men who protect, possess, and utterly ruin you for anyone else.

What Is a Shadow Daddy in Dark Romance?

A Shadow Daddy MMC is a morally black, power-drenched antihero who moves like a threat and loves like a storm. He’s the man born of darkness—commanding, possessive, devastatingly dangerous—and the only one the heroine can’t outrun. He’ll tear the world apart to protect her and worship her in ways that terrify everyone else.

➡ Blood Descent

➡ Shadow Descent

➡ Wicked Descent

➡ Wicked Throne

With love (and a little darkness),

Athena Starr

KIRA

“I’m pulling over,” I said, spotting the cemetery cutting through the treeline.

Hannah glanced up from her phone, following my gaze to the weathered stone church. “Seriously? A cemetery? Now? What is with you and these places?” She stared out of the window as I grabbed my professional camera from the back seat.

“For my substack and I want to explore Duskhaven before tonight. Get a feel for the place.” I was already unbuckling my seatbelt. “You don’t have to come.”

“Good, because I’m not.” She waved her phone. “Liam’s calling anyway. Cemeteries freak me out.”

I left Hannah in the car and walked toward the church, pulling out my phone to capture the gothic spires against the gray sky. The building looked abandoned, chains wrapped around the heavy wooden doors, rust bleeding down the stone like old tears. I snapped a few shots of the dramatic entrance before heading around back.

The cemetery called to me, overgrown and wild, headstones tilting like broken teeth. Dark academia meets small-town gothic. I moved through the graves methodically, photographing the most elaborate monuments, the kind only old money could buy.

I crouched beside one headstone, adjusting the angle to catch the carved roses and I moved along taking several shots, the professional in me recognizing good content when I saw it. This was the kind of atmospheric, slightly morbid aesthetic that performed well on social media. My followers ate up this dark romanticism.

But as I framed another shot of a particularly ornate angel statue, its wings spread wide and face turned skyward in apparent anguish, I heard something that made me freeze.

A voice. Low, conversational, like someone talking to an old friend.

That’s when I heard the voice and I followed the sound through the overgrown paths until I saw him—a man kneeling beside a grave, his back to me.

He was placing something on the headstone. Fresh white roses, incongruous against the weathered marble. And in his other hand, he was flipping a silver coin that caught the afternoon light, glinting like liquid mercury.

The man rose slowly, movements fluid and predatory but didn’t turn around. “You can come closer,” he said, voice carrying easily across the stillness. “I’m assuming you’re here for the Halloween event.”

“Yes,” I answered, my voice smaller than I intended. My heart hammered against my ribs as I realized I should have left. Should have backed away quietly and pretended I’d never seen this.

But my feet wouldn’t move. Something about the way he stood there, perfectly still among the graves, made my mouth go dry and my mother’s voice echoed in my head—Don’t go poking around in places that aren’t meant for you, Kira. 

She would have had a fit if she knew I was not only in a cemetery but photographing it, turning sacred ground into social media content.

Disrespectful, she’d call it. Inviting darkness into your life.

But that familiar maternal disapproval only made me want to step closer. The same rebellious pull that had made me pierce my ears three times, get that small tattoo on my ankle, lower back and skip church whenever I could get away with it. 

Instead of retreating, I moved toward the stranger, drawn by curiosity to him and the striking contrast of fresh white roses against the weathered tombstones.

My phone was in my backpocket and my camera still in my hands but I didn’t dare take a picture now. I wanted to but something about this moment felt too private, too charged with meaning I didn’t understand.

When he finally turned, I was pinned in place by his amber gaze—like whiskey backlit by firelight, like honey caught in a predator’s teeth. 

Roman McKay.

I recognized him from the photos online, but they hadn’t captured the raw magnetism of him in person. Dark hair swept back, jawline shadowed with stubble, and those penetrating amber eyes that seemed to strip me bare.

The photos hadn’t captured the way he commanded space either, he was masculine beauty wrapped in expensive clothes, yes but it was the kind of beauty that made my thighs press together; like he belonged above me in bed, the kind of man who would pin my wrists and watch my face while I came apart beneath him.

Kira, what is wrong with you? My thoughts burned through me, shame blazing hot as it always had.

My mother’s voice echoed sin even as my body throbbed with want.

But those eyes — God, those eyes — held mine until my knees threatened to give, like he was cataloguing every thought I’d ever had, every secret I’d ever tried to bury.

“Most people avoid cemeteries,” Roman said, tucking his coin in his coat pocket. “Especially ones like this.”

“What makes this one special?” The words came out steadier than I felt.

I already knew the answer, of course. Everyone who researched Duskhaven knew the story. In the 1920s, a McKay—Roman’s ancestor—had killed his fiancée and then himself, in the Duskhaven manor.

The scandal had destroyed everything. The family’s Gatsby-esque empire of hotels and estates had crumbled overnight. Duskhaven, once a thriving destination for the wealthy, had withered into the forgotten backwater it was now.

But I wanted to hear him say it. Wanted to see if he’d acknowledge the blood on his family name, the reason this town felt like it was slowly dying, the reason people still whispered about the McKays with a mixture of fear and fascination.

Roman’ smile was slow, dangerous, almost  like he knew exactly what I was thinking. “For the next three nights,” His gaze traveled deliberately down my body, diverting the conversation before returning to my face and he stepped closer. “The veil thins, little sinner, and old debts come due.” Close enough now that I could smell his cologne, something dark and expensive that made my mouth water. “Are you ready for that kind of reckoning?”

“I-I don’t know what you mean.” But my voice came out breathless, betraying me.

“You have a taste for dangerous places, don’t you?” Roman’ voice dropped lower, more intimate, eyes flicking to the camera still clutched in my hands. “Taking pictures of the dead, turning sacred ground into… what? Social media content? Sell the images, make a quick buck.” His smile turned predatory. 

“No,” I lied, hating that he had read me so easily or maybe everyone does this and I am not unique.

Nevertheless, heat flooded my cheeks because Roman wasn’t entirely wrong. Duskhaven was known for the murder, and everyone who came to this town was chasing ghosts or dark history for their own reasons. Mine just happened to involve building a photography portfolio with gothic aesthetic that would actually pay the bills.

“I can see it in your eyes,” Roman furthered. “The hunger for something… forbidden.”

“You can tell all that from looking at me?”

Roman reached out, fingers barely grazing my wrist where I held the camera, his gaze dropping to my hand. “For she has forsaken the path of life, her steps lead down to death,” he quoted the bible verse softly which caught me off guard. Roman knew it too; the way his thumb lingered told me he could feel it in my pulse. His thumb traced over the small script tattooed along my knuckles. “M.A.T. T Seven One, otherwise Mathhew 7:1. ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ How… interesting.”

The scripture rolled off his tongue like a caress, coiling low in my belly. Heat bloomed between my thighs and still the words cut deeper than he knew. It wasn’t just scripture; it was a reminder of how verses like that had been wielded like chains.

My mother’s voice. My church’s silence. Every time I had wanted to speak, to name what happened, faith had been the muzzle.

I bit back a sound, thighs clenching involuntarily as his thumb traced my tattoo. He had connected the dots, my ink meant I knew the Bible, which made his choice of verse deliberate.

So, what did that make Roman’s verse?  A mockery of my rebellion? Or a reminder that no matter how I twisted scripture to my own ends, he could twist it sharper, darker, and cut me with it?

“Are you religious?” I asked him.

Roman’s laugh was low, “Religious? No.” His fingers still traced the edge of my tattoo. “But I understand the power of faith. How useful it is for… shaping behavior. Making people feel guilty for wanting what they want.”

“Especially useful for hiding behind,” I said quietly, surprising myself with the bitterness in my voice. “Amazing how many sins can be washed away with the right prayers. Confessions to a priest or how many predators find sanctuary in sanctuaries.”

Roman’s eyes sharpened, studying my face with new interest. “Speaking from experience?”

The words lanced through me, sharper than they should have. My throat locked, the truth pressing hard against the back of my teeth. For a heartbeat I wanted to say it; spill everything I had buried under years of silence and my mother’s judgment. But the muzzle was too familiar, too tight and he was a stranger.

I pulled my hand back, suddenly aware of how much I’d given away. “Just… observation.”

“Hmm.” Roman’s smile sharpened, appreciative in a way that made my skin prickle. “And do those lips of yours come with a name, Miss…?”

“Kira.”

Roman turned to go, then paused. “Kira, try not to wander off alone in Duskhaven. This town has a way of keeping things that don’t belong to them.”

The words sounded less like a warning and more like a promise, that wandering was exactly what he wanted me to do. My body shivered with the certainty that if he caught me, he’d do more than keep me.

I thought of calling after Roman but he was already walking away, disappearing between the headstones like he was never here at all. Only the fresh roses on a grave proved I hadn’t imagined it.

When I finally made it back to the car, Hannah was still on the phone, oblivious. I slid into the passenger seat, pulse racing and that inexplicable heat still thrumming under my skin, my underwear damp and clinging, my body aching for a touch that felt like damnation.

My mother’s voice might have been hissing about sin, but my body was screaming for more of whatever Roman McKay was offering.

“Ready?” Hannah asked, glancing up from her phone.

I nodded, though uncertainty gnawed at me. 

Roman McKay wasn’t just some handsome local, he owned this entire town and probably had his pick of anyone chasing Duskhaven’s ghost stories. Maybe I was just another tourist to him, easy prey. I was nobody special. Just a girl with a camera and a long list of red flags.

But as much as I tried to rationalize it away, the truth crawled colder and closer. This didn’t feel random. It felt like I had stepped into something waiting for me long before I’d ever heard of Duskhaven.

The way Roman looked at me wasn’t casual flirtation. It wasn’t even hunger.

It was recognition.

And that terrified me most of all.

–

Read The Warlock’s Little Thief — a forbidden dark romance of obsession and magik — free on Inkitt and ReamStories.

The Witch We Deserved vs. The Witch We’re Getting

Bonnie Bennett deserved more than pain dressed as purpose.

More than dying so others could live.

More than being the witch who fixed what everyone else broke.

Fans of The Vampire Diaries know this story too well — the “strong” Black girl who carried everyone’s salvation but was never granted her own. The so-called Magical Negro archetype wrapped in curls, kindness, and quiet suffering. Bonnie wasn’t just written as a martyr; she was written as expendable.

And that’s what still stings because she deserved a descent, not a disappearance.

But what if I told you there’s a character who takes everything we loved about Bonnie and cranks it up to eleven?

Meet Viola Bennett from Blood Descent and yes, that last name is intentional.

–

Bonnie started as the witch who could barely light a candle and ended up holding back hell itself. She was powerful, loyal, and endlessly sacrificed for others.

Viola carries that same DNA but her world doesn’t punish her for it.

She’s told her whole life she’s powerless, a foster kid scraping and then she accidentally breaks a 500-year-old seal and unleashes an ancient vampyr prince. Oops.

Suddenly, she’s seeing ley lines, triggering earthquakes when threatened, and teleporting across the world.

And the cruelest irony? She still doesn’t believe she’s powerful.

Bonnie was the witch who died for others. Viola is the witch who lives through it and makes the world pay for every wound.

Where Viola Bennett Levels Up

Let’s address the obvious Bonnie’s love life was a tragedy. Enzo’s death. Jeremy’s indecision. The writers seemed allergic to giving her a love story that burned as fiercely as her magic.

Viola and Matic? Pure chaos and tension.

From the moment she frees him, they’re soul-tied — literally bound through magic and emotion. She feels his rage, his hunger, his centuries of darkness. He’s drawn to her not because she carries his dead wife’s soul, but because Viola herself is a storm he can’t resist.

Their chemistry is dangerous and addictive; earthquakes mid-kiss, poetry written in shadows, devotion that borders on ruin. Matic is possessive, scarred, and centuries deep in sin and he has to earn redemption.

Their love isn’t easy. It’s jagged, violent, and real.

This is the kind of vampyr romance Bonnie Bennett deserved but never got.

Viola’s story doesn’t just give her the love Bonnie was denied, it gives her the consequence, the agency, and the fire to make it matter.

Why Viola Bennett Is the Bonnie Bennett Story We Deserved

Look, I love Bonnie Bennett. She’s iconic but she was failed by her writers—sidelined in favor of love triangles and vampire drama, and never given the spotlight she earned.

Viola Bennett feels like a love letter to every fan who ever wanted more for Bonnie:

✨ She’s the protagonist of her own dark, romantic, and magikal story
✨ Her power has real, physical consequences; magic that scars instead of sparkles
✨ She gets the passionate, complicated romance Bonnie was denied
✨ Her trauma is centered and given the weight it deserves
✨ She’s allowed to be messy, angry, and morally complex
✨ Her friendship with Emery is ride-or-die without reducing her to a sidekick

Viola is what happens when you take the Bonnie Bennett archetype and finally let her burn, love, and rise on her own terms.

The Bottom Line

If you loved Bonnie Bennett; her loyalty, her power, her quiet strength beneath the surface, you need to read Blood Descent.

Viola Bennett carries the same DNA, but she gets the story Bonnie never did.

• She’s the underestimated foster kid who breaks a 500-year-old curse.
• The witch whose power cracks the earth.
• The woman marked for death.
• The reincarnated soul who demands to be seen as herself.

She’s Bonnie Bennett — if Bonnie had been the main character of her own story.

So if you’re still bitter about how The Vampire Diaries treated her…

If you wanted her to have the epic love, the power, and the spotlight she deserved…

If you believe witches who give everything should finally get their moment—

Then Viola Bennett is calling your name.

A witch with dormant powers. A vampyr imprisoned for centuries. A destiny that could save or doom them both.

Viola never meant to awaken him. One accidental spell, and she unleashes Matic—an exiled half-demon vampyr with eyes like winter’s edge and a voice that drips temptation and damnation.

➡ Read on Inkitt

➡ Read on Ream

The First Sacrifice

CHLOE

-

The radio crackled through static, a cheerful local voice breaking in between the storm’s hiss. “Duskhaven welcomes visitors this fall—don’t miss the trails through our historic forest, camping under the stars, and the Halloween festivities at the old manor.”

I barely registered, too busy glancing at the rearview mirror, too busy keeping my daughter alive as my grip on the wheel ached, tendons tight, nails biting my palms. In the rearview mirror, the same set of headlights clung to my bumper like a shadow I couldn't shake.

I pressed harder on the gas. The road bled slick under the tires, water hissing as I veered toward the gas station glowing like a beacon in the night. Neon flickered against the heaven’s punishmentt—red, green, blue.

 The car behind me followed and my chest locked.

Lucy stirred in the back seat, a small whimper slipping from her lips. Even half-asleep, her cheek bore the bruise I couldn't look at without choking on fury. Purple, swollen, shaped by Eric's knuckles. I wanted to scream every time I saw it.

I pulled into the station, parked under the canopy's humming fluorescent lights. My hands shook against the gearshift, but I didn't turn off the engine. Didn't dare. 

I just… waited.

The car that had been tailing me slid into a space a few rows over. A man climbed out, hood up, head bent. My heart pounded so violently my ribs ached.

I scanned the lot, at the people pumping gas. Normal thing to do at a gas station but for me, everyone looked like an informant. Teenagers loitering with their hoodies pulled over their heads looked like a pair of Eric's eyes. He had money, reach, a taste for control that never ended. 

My husband’s voice slithered in my memory: You think you can hide from me? You think you can take my daughter?

I pressed a trembling hand to my sternum.

A knock on my window cracked the air like a gunshot.

I jerked, biting down on a scream and my breath fogged the glass as I turned.

A man stood there, middle-aged, soaked in rain. His mouth moved and I lowered the window two cautious inches.

"Ma'am," The stranger said, gesturing toward my taillights. "Your right rear's out. Dangerous in this weather."

My pulse stuttered, a violent kick against my ribs. Just that. Not Eric's man. Not a message delivered with a smile that never reached the eyes. Just a stranger pointing out a bulb, a burial shroud of water dripping from his hood like tears I couldn't shed.

"Thank you," I forced out, the words scraping my throat raw.

He nodded and walked away, skyfall swallowing him back into the lot. I watched him go, paranoia clawing at my chest until he disappeared.

My phone buzzed in the cupholder. The sound ripped through my nerves like glass, sharp and sudden. I snatched it up, screen lighting my dark mini van.

Stephanie: We’re here.

The breath I had been holding escaped in a shaky rush. My thumbs flew across the screen, desperate.

I replied: Gray minivan. Third row.

Minutes crawled by like hours. Then headlights broke through the storm, cutting through the darkness like salvation. This year’s edition SUV pulled in, wipers straining against the deluge that hammered the roof like angry fists.

I killed the engine and climbed out into the cold rain. Water hit me like punishment, plastering my hair to my cheeks, seeping through my coat until I shivered from more than just fear. The storm tasted of metal and desperation.

The driver's door opened. Stephanie.

"Chloe," my stepsister called out, voice sharp with fatigue and irritation that cut through the downpour. "This better be serious. Darren and I drove twelve hours."

The same voice I remembered from when we were teenagers—hard, defensive, tired of being my punching bag. I was cruel back then, spinning rumors and picking on her for no reason other than we were step siblings and I hated that my dad remarried. 

I almost snapped back now, muscle memory and old habits dying hard. But Stephanie's gaze lingered on the fading yellow-green bruise that bloomed across my left cheek. Her mouth tightened, but she didn't say anything. She didn't have to.

We both knew what Eric was when I married him. The whispered warnings at family dinners, the way he would grip my wrist when other men looked too long at me, the cold fury that lived behind his perfect smile. Stephanie had tried to tell me once, years ago, but he offered me the world on a golden platter and I stupidly thought a slap here or there was part of the arrangement—a sacrifice for the wealth and lavish parties.

Now her eyes held no satisfaction, no I told you so. Just exhaustion and something that might have been pity.

Stephanie’s gaze shifted over my shoulder then, to Lucy drowsing in her car seat. Her expression froze on Lucy’s bruise as the lightning that split the sky. 

The storm roared around us, but for me, it was silence. Shame pressed against my throat, heavy as chains, choking me with the weight of who I had chosen to marry and what I had let happen.

“Eric did that,” Stephanie’s eyes were focused on me now and it wasn’t a question.

"I couldn’t tell you everything over the phone," I said. "He knows I love Lucy. Eric hit her to punish me. He won't stop until—" I cut myself off, shaking so hard my teeth chattered. "He'll kill us both if I don't disappear. I need you to take her."

“Chloe, I ca-”

“He doesn’t know that you live in Newbrunswick. I never talk about you or Darren.”

Stephanie flinched at the confession, but she didn’t argue. Not now.

"Eric will call the cops on us," Stephanie said, fear creeping into her voice. "What if he charges us with kidnapping?"

I shook my head, the storm streaming down my face. "He won't. He wants me." The words came out flat, certain. "Lucy is just leverage—a way to control me, to make me come back. If I'm not there to hurt, the child becomes worthless to him."

Stephanie's eyes widened, horror dawning across her features. "Jesus, Chloe."

"Eric doesn't care for her or loves Lucy," I continued, my voice breaking. "He never did. Lucy was just another possession, another way to keep me trapped. Without me there to punish..." I couldn't finish the sentence, but we both understood.

Sheets of water pounded harder, as if the sky itself was weeping for what I was about to do.

Stephanie stared at me for a long, harrowing moment, her eyes searching my face for lies she wouldn't find. Then she moved, opening the back door and reaching with hesitant fingers for the girl who had already cost me everything.

Lucy stirred, eyes fluttering open. My gut twisted as I watched her blink in confusion and Stephanie unbuckled my daughter with careful movements, her hands shaking as she lifted Lucy from her seat. 

When she settled her against her shoulder, Lucy had a piece of paper clutched between her hands and I carefully slipped it from between her fingers. She relaxed willingly, still drowsy from sleep. Rain droplets caught on her dark lashes, and I said "Cover her."

“I know. Chloe, I have two children around the same age as Lucy.” Stephanie pulled her little hoodie up over her head, shielding her from the liquid night. Her movements were careful, protective, already claiming my child as hers to guard.

My heart ached as Darren appeared around the corner of their SUV, against the downpour and Stephanie said, “Take out her car seat and put it in our vehicle."

In Stephanie’s arms, Lucy was light, breakable, as if she might vanish.

Without question, Darren  took one look at the scene—me soaked and shaking, Stephanie holding a bruised child and moved without questions. He wrestled the car seat from my minivan, rain making everything slippery, his hands fumbling with urgency.

"Are you coming with us?" Stephanie asked once we'd secured the seat in their vehicle. Darren wrestled Lucy into the car seat, each buckle locking her further away from me.

I shook my head, water streaming from my hair. "Eric has money. Eyes everywhere. If he finds me with you, he’ll come for all of us.” My voice cracked. 

Stephanie's face crumpled for just a moment before hardening into resolve. "Then what happens to you?"

Thunder cracked overhead, and I lifted my face to the storm. "I disappear. Become someone he can't find." The words tasted like a lie, but I forced them out anyway. "You need to go. Now."

Lucy stirred, soft whimpers spilling from her lips. Her lashes clumped with the storm’s tears, her mouth trembling in sleep. I leaned in, kissed her damp forehead, and the words tore out of me on a sob I couldn’t contain.

“I love you, baby. I love you so much.”

My tears streaked across Lucy’s skin. Her small fingers twitched, maybe reaching for me in her half-sleep, and it ripped me open to step back. Darren slid into the driver’s seat, murmuring that my daughter would be safe, taken care of—words that felt like knives. 

All I wanted was to tear Lucy from the car seat, clutch her to my chest, and never let her go.

Closing the car door, Stephanie pulled me into a hug before I realized what was happening. For a second I just stood there, stiff with surprise, before my body gave out and I let myself sink into it. Her coat soaked through, her arms awkward, but she gave me more comfort than I’d felt in years.

When she pulled back, I rattled off the things that mattered most: “She likes oatmeal with too much sugar. She’ll only drink milk if it’s in the yellow cup. She watches Paw Patrol until she falls asleep.” My voice cracked, breaking on the stupid, ordinary details.

Stephanie’s eyes softened. “I’ll take care of her, Chloe. I swear it.”

Lucy turned in her seat, drowsy eyes finding mine through the glass. Worry tugged at her little features, and the sound she made—half whimper, half question—nearly buckled my knees.

“I’ll call you when I can,” I whispered, even though I didn’t know if it was a promise I could keep.

Stephanie nodded once, then climbed into the SUV. Darren started the engine, headlights cutting through the drowning from above.

I stood in the storm, my chest fracturing as the taillights disappeared into the night. The mother in me wanted to chase after them, screaming, clawing at the asphalt until my fingers bled. But she was gone now, smothered under years of bad choices and bruises I had called love.

If Lucy grew up hating me, she’d be right. I failed her in every way that mattered.

All that remained in the rain wasn’t a mother, wasn’t a woman worth saving—only something hollow. Something that had already forfeited the right to be loved.

And hollow things don’t fear the dark.

Hollow things go looking for it.

-

Enter the haunted halls of The Phantom Bride.

Read on Inkitt or Ream.

Dark romance doesn’t whisper—it devours. Between obsession and surrender, these stories push readers to crave danger, dominance, and devotion in the same breath. From morally gray antiheroes to captive heroines who learn to want their monsters, the genre’s most wicked tropes keep topping bestseller lists and BookTok feeds. Below is a breakdown of the most popular dark romance tropes dominating 2025—and why readers can’t stop falling for the villains.

Top Dark Romance Tropes

→ The Obsessive Antihero (a.k.a. The Monster Who Loves Too Hard) Readers can’t get enough of men who love like a weapon—unrelenting, possessive, and all-consuming. These antiheroes stalk, claim, and worship in equal measure. The obsession isn’t soft—it’s survival. Why it works: It satisfies readers’ craving for intensity and emotional danger.

→ The Captive and the Keeper Kidnapping, imprisonment, forced proximity—this trope fuels moral conflict and forbidden chemistry. Readers know it’s wrong, but that’s the point. Why it works: The heroine’s fear morphs into fascination, mirroring the reader’s thrill.

→ Enemies to Lovers—But Make It Violent Dark romance turns the classic trope into emotional warfare. They fight, they destroy, they fall. Why it works: The line between hate and desire is paper-thin, and crossing it feels like sin.

→ The Power Imbalance (Dom/Sub Dynamics) Whether he’s her boss, captor, or supernatural ruler, he wields total control—and yet, she learns to wield it back. Why it works: Readers are addicted to the psychological chess match between dominance and defiance.

→ The Push-Pull Addiction He gives her just enough freedom to make her think she’s won—before taking it away. Emotional whiplash at its finest. Why it works: The agony of denial makes the release euphoric.

→ The Mark of Ownership (Possessive Claiming) From bruises to collars to symbolic jewelry, the antihero leaves proof she’s his. She should hate it—but she doesn’t. Why it works: Physical claiming scenes ignite primal tension and feed the fantasy of being wanted beyond reason.

→ The Protector Who Corrupts He swore to keep her safe, but his version of protection comes with chains. Why it works: The duality of savior and sinner creates a delicious moral paradox.

→ The Revenge Romance He’s here to ruin her—or her family—but vengeance burns into lust, and ruin becomes devotion. Why it works: Emotional stakes skyrocket when vengeance transforms into vulnerability.

→ The Stalker Fantasy He watches, he follows, he knows her routines. It should be terrifying but in dark romance, it’s foreplay. Why it works: Readers are drawn to the forbidden intimacy of being seen completely.

→ The Reverse Harem / Shared Obsession Why have one monster when you can have four? This trope gives readers the fantasy of being desired by many and dominated by all. Why it works: It merges possessive love with a sense of abundance and devotion.

Why Readers Crave These Tropes

Dark romance thrives because it lets readers explore taboo desire in a safe way—where danger becomes erotic, pain turns to pleasure, and surrender feels divine. These stories blur the lines between love and ruin, between what should be feared and what’s secretly craved.

Readers don’t come to dark romance for purity, they come for transformation. They want to see heroines break and rebuild, villains bleed for love, and every moral boundary burn until devotion feels like damnation.

As we move from 2025 into 2026, dark romance isn’t just a genre anymore—it’s an emotional addiction. Readers aren’t searching for fairy tales; they’re chasing the beautifully broken, the forbidden, and the kind of love that leaves a mark.

Hey Angels!

Before I dive into book updates, I just want to pause and say thank you. Every follow, review, and late-night comment means the world to me. Writing can feel like shouting into the void sometimes but because of you guys, it feels like a conversation, a community, and a shared obsession. I notice every interaction, and I’m so grateful for the way you support me and these dark, twisted worlds.

Now for the fun part, here’s what’s coming your way:

➡ Wicked Descent, We’re diving back into Viola and Matic

➡ The Vampyr’s Collateral - An Erotic Christmas Story

➡ Early 2026 – Alpha’s Wrath: Lucien’s story. His book will continue the story to find the partner behind the drug.

P.S. If you crave more; alternate POVs, deeper dives into world lore and magik systems, and early access to artwork—I’d love to have you inside The Unhaloed.

Join here: https://books.athenastarr.ca/#the-unhaloed

With love (and a little darkness),

Athena

Hey Angels!

Before I dive into book updates, I just want to pause and say thank you. Every follow, review, and late-night comment means the world to me. Writing can feel like shouting into the void sometimes but because of you guys, it feels like a conversation, a community, and a shared obsession. I notice every interaction, and I’m so grateful for the way you support me and these dark, twisted worlds.

Now for the fun part, here’s what’s coming your way:

➡ October 2025 – The Phantom Bride. My Halloween release, available only for my Unhaloed tiered members.

➡ October/November 2025 – Wicked Descent, We’re diving back into Viola and Matic

➡ Early 2026 – The Vampyr’s Plaything. An Unhaloed exclusive. The same world from ‘The Vampyr’s Slave’

➡ Early 2026 – Alpha’s Wrath: Lucien’s story. His book will continue the story to find the partner behind the drug.

P.S. If you crave more; alternate POVs, deeper dives into world lore and magik systems, and early access to artwork—I’d love to have you inside The Unhaloed..

Join here: https://books.athenastarr.ca/#the-unhaloed

With love (and a little darkness),

Athena

⚠️COMING SOON⚠️

The Phantom Bride – A Haunted Halloween Romance ️

This story is locked in the crypt for Unhaloed eyes only. Exclusive to my members.

Chloe escaped her abusive husband, but in the shadows of a haunted manor she finds a phantom whose obsession may be deadlier than the man hunting her.

✨ Tropes You’ll Find Inside:
✓ Obsessive / Possessive MMC
✓ Supernatural Bond
✓ Haunted House / Gothic Setting
✓ Forced Proximity / No Escape
✓ Dubious Consent / Supernatural Compulsion

⚠️ Content Warnings: Domestic violence (on page), child abuse (referenced), dubious consent / supernatural compulsion, explicit sexual content, violence / blood, psychological manipulation, abandonment of child (for safety), and dark themes throughout.

Perfect for readers who devour dark paranormal romance, haunted estates, possessive MMCs, supernatural heat, and gothic love stories tangled in shadows and sin.

>> Join The Unhaloed Today <<

⚠️COMING SOON⚠️

Blood Descent was only the beginning…

The rupture between realms has been sealed.

Matic thought five centuries of imprisonment was his greatest torment. He was wrong.

Viola believed breaking one seal was her worst mistake. The real mistake was thinking it would end there.

The second book in the series is coming soon—and the descent into Tehom has only just begun.

Some storms don’t pass. They consume everything.